


a guttering candle to beat back the storm

by saltandlimes



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Exes, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, New York City, yeah it is pretty much a balance of both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: Weeks after his breakup with Lyra, Galen decides to finally clean out his apartment closet. He's shocked to find an old, unopened envelope, dating back to graduate school. The letter inside is more important than he ever would have imagined.





	

Galen slides down the the wall to sit, slumped, on the floor with his back against the closet door. He lets his head fall back with a thump. The apartment is silent, only the low whisper of the heat through the radiator humming at the edge of hearing. Galen takes a deep breath, and it echoes out. 

He hasn’t spent much time listening to the silence lately. His office has a pull-out couch, the lab has a shower off it. The lab has people and sound, and more than anything, it isn’t here. It isn’t the empty spaces Lyra used to fill, the holes in his life that gape wide since she left.

Galen shakes his head a little. This is his apartment, his home. He's almost finished cleaning it, scrubbing it free of the little bits of her life that infected it over long years. There is only the closet behind him left. 

He stands, swaying a little on unsteady feet. The doorknob is cold under his fingertips, and the door sticks in the frame, resisting his attempts to wipe this last stain from his home. Galen tugs at it once, twice, and then it comes open in a screech of protesting wood. 

Inside, the closet is dark. Galen fumbles around in the dead space somewhere near his face. He takes a step forward, pawing blindly for the chain to turn on the single light. Another step and it brushes his cheek, spiderweb like. He bats at it, frantic for a second before his hand closes on it and he yanks hard. There's a faint pop. Above him, the exposed bulb flickers on, sending shadows dancing across the floor. 

The shelves are piled high with boxes. Some are marked in Lyra's spidery handwriting, relics of trips taken and reams of papers saved ‘for the future.’ Galen pulls one off the shelf roughly, almost spilling it as he shoves it out the door to be taken to the dumpster later. The next gets the same treatment, but a twinge in his shoulder reminds him to take it just a little slower on the third box.

It takes Galen almost an hour and a half to wade through the mess of boxes to the back of the room. He's made a pile of old quilts in one corner, relics of his mother’s short lived membership in a quilting club when he was in high school. Lyra hadn't liked to see them out, had felt the tragedy of Galen's mother’s death hanging over them like a veil. Galen thinks absently about how one will look on his bed as he pulls down an unlabeled box. 

The first few papers inside are old report cards, wrinkled and yellowed with age. Galen sets them to one side, smoothing them flat. Underneath is a thin notebook he faintly remembers from the last days of his Ph. D. It's probably useless now, old data and half finished equations. He sets it on top of the reports anyway. There might be something helpful there. 

Next is an envelope.

Galen's breath hitches painfully in his chest as he takes in the heavy, looping scrawl of his name on the front. He hasn't seen this in years. Not since he found it on his front mat, a little bent from where it had been shoved underneath his door.

He hadn't opened it then.

No, reeling on the heels of his first serious break up, Galen had shoved the envelope into a box and buried himself in his work. He reaches out now, fingers trembling as he plucks the envelope from the box. The paper is stiff, heavy stationary that has hardly felt the touch of time. Galen flips the envelope over, and the the sharp sound as he rips it open echoes through the still air of the closet. 

He draws a single sheet of notebook paper slowly out of the envelope. It has been almost a decade. There is no need for the way his heart beats faster as he unfolds the pages. He licks his lips. No need for it, and yet he feels as if poised on the edge of a precipice. He focuses on the first words of the letter.

_Galen_ , it begins, and Galen notes that Orson's writing looks shakier than he remembers.

_I am so incredibly sorry. I know that can't make up for anything, but I need to say it. I need to tell you that I am sorry every moment of every day. I can't look out the window of my office, catch a glimpse of your lab just across the way, and not think of it. I buy a cup of coffee and I think of the look in your eyes last week. I open up a document, trying to work on my dissertation, and I mourn the loss of your laughter somewhere just behind me. Everywhere I look, every moment of my day, something reminds me of you._

_I fucked up. ~~just like I always~~ there's nothing I can ever do to make up for this, I know. Of all the people in the world, you are the person that matters the most to me. The only one that matters. It was ~~stupid~~ selfish to sleep with that boy. ~~I don't know~~ And I know you were right to do what you did. I'm trying to believe that._

_But, Galen, I love you. I've never said it, but I do. More than anything. I would do anything for you, take worlds apart at your command, break every rule in every book to give you everything you've ever wanted. Please, no matter what you think of me, know that. Know I will always love you._

_Yours, forever,_  
_Orson_

The closet echoes silently in Galen’s ears. It’s only when his eyes fill with sparkling motes that Galen realizes he’s forgotten to breathe. The first gasp sounds loud in the half light, and Galen dissolves into a fit of coughing, lungs too full of Orson’s words to take in something as poor as air.

When he can finally breathe, Galen finds himself bent over, hands flat on the floor. His knees ache. He pushes himself back, sitting down with his legs drawn up in front of him. Galen cradles the letter to himself, pressing the words to his chest. He can’t believe he never opened it. 

He can see, somewhere behind his eyelids, Orson bent over his desk in his old office. His hair would have been in disarray, a single curl falling across his forehead, the rest standing out to one side where Orson would have absently fisted his hands in it. Galen can see the flush that must have painted Orson’s cheeks, the tremble in his fingers as he poured out his heart onto the page. 

Galen’s stomach heaves. He’d never responded. He’s held Orson’s heart buried in a box for years, and never even known. He runs out of the closet, just making it to the bathroom before he spits up bile and sadness. 

***

It takes a week to work up the courage to look Orson up on the computer. When he does, though, Galen is astounded by what he finds. Pages of newspaper releases - _“Orson Krennic leads a new restoration project in New York City.” “Krennic to speak at opening of refurbished Senate building,” “Krennic builds new tower in San Fransisco”_

There’s a pile of tabloid reports as well. These make Galen’s smile drop from his lips. Orson spotted outside a famous nightclub, a stream of men and women on Orson’s arm, all young, all beautiful. Rumors of drugs, of extravagant parties. Orson seems to flirt with scandal, but never quite get caught up in it. Galen runs a hand over his face. Never married, never linked to anyone for more than a few months. This can’t be his fault… can it?

It takes another week for Galen to look up Orson’s number. He waits until Friday afternoon before he pulls out his phone, fingers trembling a little as he punches in the number. The phone rings. Galen almost hands up then, finger shaking over the end call button, but before he can tap it, the call goes through. 

“Orson Krennic’s office, how can I help you?”

Galen clears his throat. A receptionist. Of course. He fidgets for a second before responding. 

“Is Orson in today?” he asks.

“Yes sir, for another few hours. Can I ask why you’re calling?”

“Orson and I are old friends. I was hoping to catch him before he went out.”

“Dr. Krennic is a very busy man. I’ll have to ask you to call back outside of business hours.”

“No!” Galen tries to calm his voice. “Look, I know if you ask, he’ll take my call. Tell him it’s Galen Erso.” He holds his breath. 

“Sir, I really don’t think…”

“Just ask him! Please…” He can’t keep the note of desperation out of his voice. 

“Alright. I’ll ask. But I can’t promise…”

“Thank you,” Galen blurts out.

“If you’ll just hold for a second,” she tells him. Music echoes down the line, thin and tinny. Galen fists a hand on his thigh, rubbing hard at the corded muscle there. He bounces his leg up and down, wondering what’s taking so long. 

“Galen?” His heart skips a beat. Orson’s voice is deeper than he remembers, a rasp in it that speaks of their years apart. 

“Orson,” he breathes, choking on his words. They pause there, silent, and Galen tries to gather himself. 

“Why are you calling?” Orson’s voice is almost sharp, but Galen fancies he can hear something else underneath it. 

“I wanted… I…” Galen takes a moment, a deep breath. “I wanted to invite you to dinner,” he blurts out. He’s not quite sure that’s what he meant to say, but now that the words have been spoken, there’s no way to pull them back. 

“To dinner?” Orson echoes. His voice hardens further. “We haven’t talked in a decade and you call to invite me to dinner! What do you really want, Galen? I won’t fund your lab, if that’s what you’re calling about!” By the end of it, Orson’s voice has risen, high, aching. Galen runs a hand over his face. 

“I just want to talk, Orson. That’s all. I thought dinner was better than me just showing up at your office.” Galen flushes as Orson lets out a dry laugh.

“Only to talk? Well then, I suppose I can’t refuse dinner with an old… friend.” The sneer is clear in Orson’s voice.

“Does next Friday work for you?” Galen asks. He’s grateful that they’re both in the city, both just a cab ride away from one another. 

“What time?”

“What about seven? I’ll text you an address if you send me your number.” Galen bites his lip. 

“Alright. I’ll text you.”

“Thank you, Orson. You won’t regret it.”

“I already do.” The line clicks off, and Galen sits there, phone pressed to his ear, listening for a voice that is gone.

***

The next week passes slower than a dammed stream, Galen wondering if time is flowing by at all. He agonizes for a day over the restaurant, then gives up. He texts Orson the address of his favorite Thai place, a hole in the wall not far from the University. He’ll never be able to match what Orson’s used to. He might as well not try. Orson responds with a single word: “alright.”

When Friday finally comes, Galen leaves the lab at four, walking back to his apartment. He takes a shower, trying to scurb himself clean of the past ten years. He discards the first two shirts he pulls out from his wardrobe, then settles on military green, a soft button up. He digs out a pair of grey jeans he bought on Reeva’s insistence right after his break up with Lyra. They’re a little tighter than he usually wears, but he supposes that’s not an entirely bad thing tonight. 

When Galen checks his watch again, for the fifth time in the past hour, he has just enough time to walk to the restaurant. He rulls his shoulders back, pocketing his wallet. Galen almost drops his key as he fumbles the lock on his front door closed, but catches it just in time. Then he’s heading down the stairs. 

Once he’s outside, he sets off at what he thinks is a suitably brisk pace. Two streets on, starting to pant a little, Galen pauses. There’s no need to show up at the restaurant sweaty and disheveled, a mess from running the entire way. When he starts walking again, he tries to measure his steps a bit better. 

It’s another ten minutes before he gets near the restaurant. A block away, Galen stops. He pulls out his phone, opening up the camera with fingers that shake more than a little. When he flips it so he can see himself, he frowns. There’s a flush across his cheekbones and his hair has started to fall across his forehead. Galen pushes it out of the way, then closes the app. There’s nothing he can do about it now. 

Galen pushes open the door to the restaurant. A single glance around tells him that Orson is nowhere to be found, and Galen can’t stop the grin that creeps across his lips. It seems that success hasn’t changed Orson’s penchant for lateness. He gets a table off to one side, then slides in so he can watch the door. 

Galen has drunk two full glasses of water and is contemplating ordering a beer before he sees the door slide open. His chest tightens a little. 

Orson’s hair has gone grey.

Galen stumbles out of his seat, his hand coming up in a short wave. His stomach twists and heat fills his cheeks. Orson’s eyes light, and he comes over, pulling off soft leather gloves. His crisp white shirt is open a little, and Galen can see new freckles across his collar bones. When Orson gets to the table, Galen draws in a long breath. And it seems, for a single frozen moment, as though that breath has stolen every molecule of air from the room. As though Galen’s lips have drunk up the life between them, and they are two points of burning flame in the void, immaterial, shining in the dark. Then, slow and steady, he breathes out.

“Orson,” he says, and the single word hangs in the air between them. 

Orson nods. He presses his lips together. Galen rushes around the table, tugging out Orson’s chair, almost knocking it into Orson’s legs. He flushes, cheeks heating, and ducks his face. Galen hears a laugh. He looks up, and Orson is smiling at him. 

“Thank you, Galen,” he says, and his voice is lower even than it seemed on the phone, roughened by the years. 

Galen slides back into his seat. He’s having trouble taking his eyes from Orson’s face, having trouble tearing himself away from Orson’s smile. 

“I…. I haven’t ordered yet. I’m not… I wasn’t quite sure what you’d want.”

Galen’s hand twitches, coming to rest on the table, reaching out for Orson. For a single moment, Galen thinks that Orson’s will press against his own. But Orson pauses, fingers clenching on the edge of the table. 

“What are you drinking?”

Galen gestures to his glass of water. Orson grimaces, then waves over a waiter. Galen watches as Orson asks about the beer list, his lips curving around the drawled vowels. 

“...do you want, Galen?”

“Sorry, Orson. What did you ask?” Galen flushes, starting. 

“I asked what you wanted to drink?” 

“Whatever you’re having,” Galen shrugs. The server nods, and then he’s left with Orson’s piercing eyes, bluer than he remembers. 

“How are you doing?” Orson asks, voice light, professional. Galen winces. 

“Working hard.”

“Of course. I’d never have expected anything else.” Orson snaps open his menu. He buries his face in it, and Galen shifts in his chair. They sit there, almost silent, Galen sneaking glances at Orson when he can. 

This is a type of mourning. 

It comes to him as he traces the grey in Orson’s hair with his eyes. This is a moment of watching the corpse of dead friendship, a vigil, desperately hoping that the corpse is in fact Lazarus, that it will rise from its bed and come back to life. 

The server comes back, dropping their drinks on the table. They both order, Galen laughing a little at Orson’s insistence that spicy food is just fine. 

Then, once again, they are left on either side of the gulf between them. Galen lifts his beer to his lips, taking a long sip. Orson’s chest expands, his inhalation palpable. 

“Why did you invite me here?”

Galen sets down his beer, trying to buy himself some time. This is perhaps the moment of resurrection. Will he call up the soul of their past from the depths of time? Is there any soul to be raised, or has it been ripped to pieces by the hounds of hell, the demons of his own past arrogance all those years ago?

“I found the letter,” he says. 

There is a long, still moment, the world caught between them again. Then Orson’s face crumples, the facade of success sloughing off. Galen watches as suddenly, the only person before him is the one he knows more intimately than he has ever known anyone else. 

“I hope you didn’t reread it,” Orson’s voice is harsh, the lisp pronounced. 

“Orson,” Galen turns the words over in his throat, but they push their way out before he can fully consider them. “I never opened it. Then, I mean.” 

He holds his breath, eyes fixed on Orson’s face. As he watches, Galen can see Orson’s throat work, a million unsaid words dying before they pass his lips. Orson’s eyes slide shut, and he draws in a deep breath. 

“Never?” Orson finally asks, and it’s the first time that Galen can hear the softness he remembers in the quiet mutter of the words. 

“I was so…” Galen shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past now. I should have read it.”

Now it’s Orson’s hand that flutters out across the table, but Galen hardly sees it. His throat is thick, the shame of youth filling it up. 

“You didn’t have to. I should have gone to you. I should have talked to you. If I cared so much, I should have spent every day outside your lab, begging to talk to you.” Orson’s voice rises, eyes burning with blue fire. Galen clenches his fist on his thigh. 

“I read it.” He looks away from the flame of Orson’s gaze as he says it, at the food that has somehow appeared before them. Orson presses his lips together. Galen watches, a fly caught in honey, waiting for the swatter to fall, waiting for Orson to storm out. 

Instead, Orson picks up his fork, sinking it into a pepper. He brings it to his lips, licking the sauce off the tines. He chews and swallows, Galen’s eyes caught and held by the bob of Orson’s throat. He licks his lips in sympathy. 

“How is your work going?” Orson asks. Galen’s heart pounds a little, air rushing in his ears. He resettles himself on his chair. 

“W-what?” he blurts out.

“I want to know how things are really going for you. Have you saved the world yet?” The words bite at Galen’s heels, chasing him in their insistent normalcy.

“Uh… fine. I mean, we haven’t saved the world, we haven’t finished, but I could tell you a little about it, if you really want.”

“Go on,” Orson replies, fingers flickering across his chin, tapping at it in interest. 

And Galen does. He finds the words spilling out of him, long, ungainly sentences that spiral away, knobbly knees and colt like legs finding purchase in the air and finally chomping at the bit, anxious to reach Orson’s ears. 

They eat and talk, Orson nodding in all the right places. He offers up tiny morsels about his own successes. Galen’s hands slowly unclench, and his breathing levels. The warmth of Orson’s company finds its way over him. Galen watches as Orson’s eyes grow soft. They fix on Galen’s face, playing over it, and their weight is a comforting press across him. 

Almost before Galen notices, he’s scraping the last grains of rice from his plate. He looks down at it, biting his lip, wondering if he can stretch those small pieces out, eat a single grain every few hours, keeping Orson transfixed, held by politeness and the curve of Galen’s mouth. But Orson folds his napkin on the edge of the table and their plates are whisked away. 

“Galen, this was…”

“Do you want to come have a drink?” Galen asks, interrupting. Orson grins, rakish. 

“Don’t want to let me leave?” he laughs. 

“No,” Galen says. His cheeks burn, and the laughter falls away from Orson’s lips. 

“Alright then,” Orson agrees. Galen nods, taking his credit card back from the server. He leads Orson out of the restaurant. 

“So, a bar or my apartment?” he asks. “It’s pretty close.”

“Your apartment, then,” Orson buttons his jacket. “Lead on.”

Galen’s fingers tremble, and he shoves them into his pockets as they start to walk. They take their time, so different from Galen’s headlong rush to the restaurant earlier. Now Galen watches as Orson peers around the neighborhood. 

While Orson’s eyes flit from street to street and doorway to doorway, Galen stumbles along. He can’t help but see the shadows of the Orson he remembers trailing behind them, a man who knows every dream Galen’s ever had, who can read every smile and quirk of Galen’s lips. It’s uncanny, the way that man seems still here, hiding behind the practiced facade of Orson’s smile. Galen wants to reach out and peel away the thin veil of Orson’s polished celebrity and reveal the rough, brilliant man within. Before Galen can finish his musing, though, they round the corner, and he has to fumble for his keys. 

Galen nods to the doorman, smiling nervously. Then he and Orson make their way into the elevator. He twists his hands behind his back. The bell dings. 

Galen’s keys jingle as he struggles with the lock. Then the door opens and he leads Orson inside. 

“A little nicer than your old apartment,” Orson grins. Galen nods, reaching out for Orson’s jacket. 

“Whiskey or gin?” he asks.

“What do you think?”

“Gin,” Galen goes to the kitchen, pulling out the handle and grabbing a bottle of tonic from the fridge. He pours for both of them. 

When he hands Orson his drink, their fingers touch. Galen shakes his head. This is not a romance film, there are no fireworks. Their eyes do not meet, revealing unseen depths. Instead, Orson takes the glass and lifts it to his lips.

“Do you want to sit down?” Galen shifts on his feet. 

“Show me around, Galen,” Orson licks a drop off of his lips. 

Galen tears his eyes away, stepping out of the tiny kitchen into the living room. It’s cluttered, papers strewn over the office table, spilling off the desk in one corner. Galen tries to tidy up the crumpled blankets at one end of the couch, only to turn and see Orson at the side table, glass in one hand, a crumpled sheet of notebook paper in the other. Galen’s breath catches in his throat, held there, frozen.

“I…” Orson starts. 

“I just had it out. That’s all. Nothing…” Galen babbles. 

Orson comes over to the couch, settling down onto it, curling into himself. Galen tumbles down beside him, not quite close enough to touch. 

“How many times have you read it?” Orson’s voice is hoarse, Galen shakes his head. 

“I don’t know.”

“Why?” Orson asks, eyes wide. 

There are more cracks in the facade of success now, and Galen has the almost irresistible temptation to wrap his arms around the man shining through. 

“Because I had to,” he says instead. 

Orson sets his glass down, paper crinkling in his grasp. He leans forward, and Galen curls his shoulders in. 

“Why?” Orson asks again.

“Because I understand now,” Galen says. He swallows thickly. “Because I’ve never found anyone like you, and I never will. Because I still care.”

He sits there, cement heavy in the pit of his stomach, sides aching. The room is silent, only the slow fizz of the tonic water in their glasses breaking the hush of the moment following Galen’s declaration. He takes another breath. 

“Do you?” Galen whispers. Orson’s eyes shimmer as he responds.

“I read a lot when I lost you. Some people say our lives are like a small flickering candle, guttering in a rainy night. Eventually it flares brighter, for a few brief moment. But then it goes out, and the wick is cold, and there is nothing left, not even the memory of flame. And Galen, I don’t know if that’s true. I’m not a philosopher. But if it is, I know that the moments I’ve been with you have been those moments when the light of the candle suddenly beats back the storm. They are the moments when the tiny, dying flame of my humanity burns bright enough that the rain cannot overcome it. And those moments are worth any price, even if all they lead to is the hiss of a quenched flame and the long dark of a night that never ends.”

Galen looks down after Orson’s voice dies to nothing, and finds himself clutching Orson’s hand, his knuckles white around Orson’s fingers. He tries to let go, bones aching as he relaxes his grip, but Orson grabs at him. When he meets Orson’s eyes, he can see that Orson is broken open. His hard exterior has fallen away, dissolved and gone for good. 

“Orson…” he breathes. 

“You don’t have to say anything.” Orson lets go of his hands. “I’ll go. I’m sorry, Galen. That was too much.” 

Orson stands up, shoulders hunched. He’s out the door of the living room before Galen can even push himself off the couch. Galen can hear his shoes tapping on the hardwood as he rushes away. After a stunned moment, Galen pushes himself off the couch, leaping across the room and pounding down the hall after Orson. His heart thumps in his chest, beating desperately. 

Orson is already at the door. 

Galen skids to a halt, slamming his palm against the door in front of Orson. His hand smarts. For a moment, that’s all he can feel: the throb of his pulse in his throat, the tingle of pain through his bones. Then he looks up into Orson’s face, to the wet, blue shine of his eye - no longer burning, drowned now.

“You don’t have your jacket,” he blurts out. “You can’t leave without your jacket.”

“It’s warm out. I’ll be fine,” Orson tells him. 

“I…” Galen takes a deep breath, “What sort of host would I be then?”

“Galen…” Orson sighs.

“Don’t leave,” Galen blurts out, almost desperate, voice breaking.

“I have to,” Orson’s voice is soft again, “Galen, you have a life, a job, a world without me. You’d never have thought about talking to me if you hadn’t found that letter. And I… I’m not like that. I come into your life, and I pour out my heart to you, and it’s pathetic. I’ve never let go. I think about you every day. I watch for your name in the news, I imagine your face, and now, the moment I get a chance to say something, I sound like a lovesick fool. You don’t need…” he trails off, cheeks bright.

Galen’s hand trembles on the door. Slowly, he reaches out with his other hand, fingers flexing in the air. Orson’s cheek is warm under his palm. 

He cups Orson’s face for long moments, holding him there. The skin is rougher than he remembers, the prickle of Orson’s five o’clock shadow sharper than Galen would have expected. Orson turns into his touch, eyes slipping shut. He nuzzles against Galen’s fingers, and Galen can’t help but trace the shape of Orson’s lips. He slides his hand underneath Orson’s chin, tipping it up. 

The first press of their lips together is soft, just butterfly-wing lightness. Galen’s fingers flex on Orson’s chin, the only connection between them. He waits. 

Then, all of an instant, Orson presses forward. His arms come up, wrapping around Galen’s shoulders. They’re heavy, pulling him in, and Galen is suddenly drowning in him. Orson bites at his mouth, teeth pressing into Galen’s lower lip. Galen gasps, and Orson’s tongue slips inside with his breath. 

He’s wrapped up in Orson, the smell of him thick in Galen’s nose, the press of his body covering Galen. The world falls away, and there is nothing left but the warmth of Orson’s hands as they run through Galen’s hair, the sweetness of Orson’s mouth against his, the sharp, desperate slide of skin on skin. Galen gasps, flame blooming in his veins. He’s being kindled, the flickering flame of his tiny soul fanned to life by Orson’s words. 

Galen pulls away before he can burn out, before his hands wander too far. Orson chases his lips, a whimper trembling in the air between them. Galen strokes his face, trying to gentle Orson’s heaving breaths, trying to soothe them both. 

“I do,” Galen gasps. “I do need you.”

Orson blushes faintly, trying to unwind his arms from Galen’s neck. Galen wraps his hand around Orson’s waist, keeping him close when Orson manages to untangle himself. 

“I didn’t know how much until I tried to live without you all these years, until I couldn’t distract myself any longer from the hole not having you made in my life.” He pulls Orson even closer, breathing the words into the curve of his neck. 

Orson trembles in his arms. He’s a soft thing, the arch of his back, the curve of his belly. Galen tightens his grip further, burying his face in the sweetness of Orson’s skin. 

Galen doesn’t know how long they stand there, wrapped up together. The world has dropped away. Slowly, though, Orson calms. He melts into Galen’s hands, resting his cheek on Galen’s shoulder. They’re still, the only sound that of their beating hearts, and Galen imagines they are beating in time. 

Then, finally, Orson pulls away. 

“That was… Galen, I’ve been dreaming of that for so long…” His eyes shine in the twilight of the hall. 

Galen brushes another light kiss across his lips, grinning when Orson shivers. He doesn’t remember this hunger, this awe from ever before. It’s stunning, the sharp sweetness of every trembling breath Orson takes. Orson leans in again, but stops himself before he presses his lips to Galen’s. 

“I should… I should go,” he says, and Galen’s chest tightens. 

“Orson… Orson no. No, I’m not letting you do this. You have me now. You’ve watched me all these years, wanted me all these years, well now I’m yours and there’s no getting rid of me.” He’s breathing hard by the end of things, clutching at Orson’s waist with clawed fingers. 

And then, marvelously, shockingly, incredibly, Orson laughs. It rings out, a bright sound that glimmers as it flutters through the air around them. Joy so pure that Galen’s heart aches to hear it. 

“Oh, Galen,” Orson says, when he finally finishes. “Now that I’ve tasted this, I would chase you across the entire world, the entire galaxy, just to keep it.” He slowly sobers, voice deepening. “But if you’re giving me a second chance, then there’s no way we’re not going to do this right. We are going to relearn each other, take things slow, understand each other again. And right now, right now if I stay, I’ll be relearning you against a mattress.”

Galen’s eyes widen, and he finds himself biting his lip, too many images conjured up in his head. But he nods slowly. 

“If that’s what you want… Orson, we’re older now. We can take this at exactly the speed you want.” He can’t help but meet Orson’s lips again though. 

This time, this kiss is one of promise. Galen tries to pour into it every word, every moment, every thought he wants to share with Orson. He licks his faith into Orson’s mouth, drinks devotion from his lips. And when they part, he rests his forehead against Orson’s for long moments, simply being.

“I’ll get your jacket,” he finally says, and Orson nods. 

When he comes back with it, Orson is leaning against the door. His head is thrown back, the lines around his eyes all smoothed away now. Galen takes a moment, standing there, to trace over him with his eyes. This is his now. Or perhaps, it has always been his, but now, now he knows. 

“Can… Breakfast tomorrow?” Orson asks, when he notices Galen watching. Galen grins. 

“And every day, if I get my way.” 

And then Orson is out the door, one more kiss pressed to his lips, a promise to text Galen hanging between them. Galen stares after him for a short moment. Then he runs down the hall to the closet, almost skipping. He pulls it open, knocking a box down in his excitement.

The quilts are soft when he finally finds them. He pulls out the largest, a dark blue one he remembers his mother laboring over for hours. She was already thin, drawn from illness, but she’d spent weeks on it, carefully stitching it together with delicate hands. Galen goes to the bedroom, the quilt bundled up in his arms. 

He shakes it open with a flourish, draping it across his bed. It falls in heavy folds at the end, reaching nearly to the floor on all sides. When it’s laid out, pattern showing for the first time in years, Galen falls backwards onto it, sprawling out. 

It’s his bed now. His, and surely Orson’s. The hole has been filled, the key turned in the lock of his soul, his path set straight. Things are finally as they should be.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what I've been focusing on instead of my million other fics, guys. It's the first modern AU of quite this sort I've put my hand to recently, and definitely one of my only semi-successful attempts at sort-of fluff. *crosses fingers* I hope you all enjoyed it. 
> 
> If you want more Star Wars obsession, or just want to come say hi, find me on tumblr at [saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


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